


Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

by RavenGrey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Domesticated Winchesters, Fluff and Angst, Loss, M/M, Mourning, Multi, Non-Graphic Wincest, Non-graphic Team Free Will, OT3, Old Age, Team Free Will, There's a happy ending in here somewhere, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenGrey/pseuds/RavenGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road they’d traveled had been long and hard and unforgiving, but they’d made it to the very end. And honestly? It hadn’t been easy on them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

**Author's Note:**

> I took quite a few liberties with this, I'll admit, but it was interesting to write and I hope it turned out half-decent.

The road they’d traveled had been long and hard and unforgiving, but they’d made it to the very end. And honestly? It hadn’t been easy on them.

 

 Dean had a bad shoulder (thanks to a nasty pair of Vetala, he’d refused to let Cas angel zap it better) and could barely walk a mile without wheezing (thanks to enough booze to kill a man and years spent in seedy, smoky bars) despite Cas’ best efforts to keep them up and running. Sam wasn’t much better off, with his bad knees (same Vetala and same refusal) and the crick in his back that made bending down a real bitch (Wraith, partnered with a freakin’ Djinn for christsakes).

 

 They creaked and groaned and some days it took Sam a good 30 minutes to drag his sorry ass out of bed, but they were whole, and more importantly, together and that was all that mattered. At least in Cas’ opinion. He’d aged enough that his hair had grayed at the temples, in the time it had taken for them to steal back his grace, and he wore it well.

 It always pissed Dean off, the way Cas’ face barely showed a single line while they got saggy and wrinkled. It helped the both of them that Cas adored every wrinkle, every minute line, every jagged scar, down to the very last and had put each and every one to memory.

 

            Old age hadn’t been kind to them, either, but to be honest they hadn’t expected it to. Hell, they hadn’t expected to make it past 40, but here they were, a staggering 67 and 63 respectably. Sam’s shoulder length hair had turned mostly grey, stripes of brown just visible, lines of laughter and pain creasing the corners of Sam’s eyes and mouth.

 

            Dean’s hair had gone with a more distinct salt-and-pepper look, exact same style, exact same length and his eyes still held a fierce kind of determination.

 

            Cas had kept them healthy for a good, long while, after they’d reclaimed his grace, but at 60, when everything started to creak and grind, they’d both decided to let nature take it’s course. Sam gave up hunting completely and become a full-time Man of Letters.

 

Around 52, before he’d retired, he’d started looking for hunters, hell, anyone really, young and old, who would be able to carry out the work of the Men of Letters after they were gone. He found 5 willing candidates over the years; Charlie included, and set about training them.

 

 Jessie was brilliant, brave, resourceful and one hell of a shot. Her twin brother Joey, 19 like his sister when Sam had initiated them, was a quiet kid who preferred book work to legwork, which was just fine with Jess. They’d lost heir parents to a Wendigo and Jessie had pestered and picked at Sam until he took them in. Jess reminded him so damn much of Dean he didn’t really have a choice in the matter and Joey, well Joey was Joey and you just had to love him.

 

Thomas was an older gentlemen, a state librarian when they’d saved him from the vengeful spirit of a librarian 60 years dead, and after consideration Sam had offered him the position. He had accepted gladly and immersed himself whole-heartedly in the Supernatural, helping Sam archive their vast amounts of knowledge with a certain amount of zeal that had stunned Sam at first.

 

 Martha was in her mid-thirties, could be meaner than anything and was able to sever a spinal cord at 30 paces with just about any kind of weapon by the time she got through with her Hunter training. Sam was beyond pleased with their legacies and Dean stopped by every Friday to help with combat training.

 

 Dean had gone a different route, rebuilding old car after old car, running his own mechanics shop outside of The Family Business and training up any hunter that stopped by their bar, between the occasional hunt, right up until he turned 64.

 

The Family Business hadn’t ever replaced Harvelle’s, but many a hunter called it home. Somewhere around 40, after a coven of vamps had burned Garth’s trailer to the ground, after much deliberating, they’d approached him with the idea over the phone and he’s shown up at the location they’d been considering with 14 of his cousins and friends, building materials and enough beer to fill a swimming pool. The plot of land was about 25 miles away from the Batcave, within driving distance, but far enough away to keep it’s location a secret.

 

They got her up and running in about 6 months, built with 15 extra rooms, a bar and 6 bathrooms, she was one of the prettiest damn things Dean had ever seen. The Jacuzzi had been Garth’s idea, so had the sun room, and Dean would sooner pull his own teeth before he admitted that he loved the way Cas looked, bathing in the sunlight, face loose and open. So the sun-room stayed and so did the greenhouse Cas spent a great deal of his time in and the library Sam eventually had added when he officially moved in.

 

 

 Sam had spent most of his time at the Batcave, information always on hand when Dean called about a baddie he wasn’t familiar with. He stopped by often, just visiting Dean and Cas and fixing the odd thing that was broken around the bar.

 

 

Sam moved into The Family Business around the same time Dean quit hunting, happy to leave the Men of Lettering to the youngsters, and Thomas, and just enjoy the time he had left with his two favorite people. Dean had complained for about a week about the bed space he was going to take up, but he grinned almost constantly when he though no-one was looking and Cas spent hours just looking at him, eyes soft.

 

The money they’d taken from the dragons’ hoard was pretty much gone, but they were happy and Dean couldn’t make himself give a damn as the bar slowly filled with hunters. There were hard times, even harder losses, and some days they didn’t know why they kept going, but somehow they did.

 

Years past, hunters were mourned and burned out back in heroes’ pyres and they grew old together, while Cas stayed ever the same. His eyes betrayed his age, though, while Sam and Dean’s skin betrayed theirs. Cas loved them all the same. Loved the rag-tag assortment of broken people that filtered in and out of their bar and made Dean smile so bright, loved each everyone one of Sam’s strays and, most of all, he loved them.

 

           

            ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

            Sam rocks carefully, conscious of the multiple dogs that litter the porch around him, an honest to fucking God afghan on his lap while he knits. Garth had taught him how and Sam had ironically made Dean a scarf for his birthday.

 

And then he had not so ironically taken up knitting. He’d gone from scarves, to hats to jumpers, all of which Cas wears proudly when the weather gets cold. Dean shakes his head at that, smiling a little, and takes a small sip of his beer, a battered journal on his lap. It’s covered in scars and nicks and the occasional burn, full of everything they know about hunting and the Supernatural. The front cover has their initials carved into the dark brown leather.

 

Dean runs his fingers over Sam’s and grins at him, eyes crinkling at the corners and wrinkles creasing his face. Sam catches him and grins right back, pausing mid-stitch, to flick a leaf at Dean. Dean slaps it away and gives Sam a superior look, still rubbing his fingers over the gouged lines on the cover.

 

He’s tired and old, and they’ve fought so damn hard, but he’s happy. He’s got everything he ever wanted and more and _damnit_ he feels peaceful. He scoffs, disgusted by the tranquil serenity that’s seeped straight into his old bones. Sam huffs at him and steals some of his beer when he’s not looking, provoking Dean into throwing his beer cap at his head. It dinks of the side of Sam’s neck and he gives a startled yelp, because he’d gone back to his knitting.

 

            Ears perk up at that and there’s a chorus of whines and yips that have Dean looking over at Sam, whose mouth is curved up into a cheeky smile. Dean pointedly snatches up his beer and looks out at their tree, the one they’d planted together after they’d finished the bar at Sam’s (and Cas’) insistence. Baby is parked a ways off, still a glassy black despite her age and the fact that she’s bee rnebuilt 8 times.

 

            Sam follows his gaze and grins softly, eyes warm and tired. He sucks in a shuddery breath, eyes heavy and on Dean, and slowly lets his eyes fall closed, a content smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They’d fought hard, lived hard and Sam’s tired, hell, they all are, and he’s ready.

 

            Dean feels it the second Sam goes, it’s sudden, peaceful, the exact opposite of what Dean had expected for them, and watches as the scarf he’d been working on pools to the ground and his entire body relaxes. Dean’s glad that Sammy wasn’t alone, but God does it hurt. Hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, ‘cause this is it. No miracles are gonna bring him back, he’s gone and Dean’s alone.

 

            “See you on the other side, Sammy.” Dean says roughly, voice thick with a deep, rending kind of sorrow as he gazes at Sam’s still face. His eyes are closed, the delicate wrinkles on his eyelids high-lighted by the dark grey of his lashes. Sam’s hand slips from the arm of his chair and dangles limply.

 

            Dean blinks hard, a tear welling up and sliding down a heavily freckled cheek while he struggles to breath through the pain. He sucks in a broken breath and reaches for Sam’s lifeless hand, gripping tight even though it can’t grip him back.

 

            Old, leather-bound and scarred, their journal looks rough, but Dean looks down at it with a jagged, pained grin on lips and writes out the last sentence in his sloppy, loose hand writing and shuts the borderline over flowing journal with a muffled thud.

           

            Eyes on Sam’s face, he can feel his heart slowing, like it’s unwilling to go on without Sam, like it’s just giving up. Breathing is difficult, breathing hurts, each breath a struggle like his body doesn’t want to give in to the indignities of death. But he does, he’s so damn tired, so, for once in his life, Dean Winchester doesn’t fight and instead follows his brother into the afterlife.

 

            ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

            Castiel feels it the second Sam’s soul leaves his body, knows Dean will follow shortly after, and makes his way to the back porch in a sort of listless daze, mind unwilling to acknowledge the undeniable fact. Castiel feels the departure of their souls deep in the core of his very being and bites back a wordless keen of anguish.

 

            He opens the backdoor ands steps out onto the porch, the clamor of laughter and shouting falling quiet once the door is closed. And there, facing one another, hands tightly intertwined, are his Sam and Dean. Every moment after is seared into his very being. From burying them beneath the Impala, dry sobs and harsh breathing pressing in on him from all sides, to pressing his palms flat to her hood and trying not to scream his hurt to the sky.

 

            Later, when Cas picks up their journal, gently, hesitantly, like it’ll crumble to dust and blow away in the wind if he handles it too roughly, he sits down, between Dean’s sensible, camo hunting chair and Sam’s old rocker and opens it to the first page. Shoulders hunched with the force of his grief, braced against the faded paneling of the porch, he begins to read, eyes sliding smoothly over Dean’s messy hand writing and Sam’s tidy script.

 

            Sam’s dogs, young and old, gather around him, some whimpering and howling for their master, others silent as though they know what has been lost. Castiel pets the black and white border-collie that Sam had favored above all others and reads on, the dogs falling silent around him as time progresses.

 

            He reads well on into the night, the sun setting on him and the moon rising to watch on in silence as he grieves the loss of his boys. There’s a deep ache in his chest that he knows is sorrow, but he sheds not a single tear as he reads through their journal, hands reverent as he turns each page.

 

            Some of the things they’ve written, little comments and arguments written out in the margins, make him smile while others twist the knot of loss in his chest. By the time he reaches the end, the very last page, Cas feels older than he has ever felt in his very long life or will ever feel.

 

            The last line, the very last line, wrenches an agonized sob from his chest, the only outward sign of grief he has shown since he had found them, still and unmoving on the back porch. A tear falls from his cheek and dots the page, sinking into the paper and smudging a line of ink.

 

            He breathes in a hard breath, holds it for a second and then casts his gaze out, to where the Impala is parked and where they lie, beneath 6 feet of dirt and enough wards to keep even the worms away. He straightens his spine, the lines on his otherwise unchanged face the only sign of his pain, and closes the journal gently.

 

            It’s 4 in the morning and there are dogs to be taken care and people to be called and a bar to be run before he can join them. The screen door screeches quietly shut behind him and every head in the bar jerks in his direction. There’s pain in every face, ranging from heart rending to mild, and most have some sort of alcoholic beverage in hand.

 

 Tears are hastily wiped away by all but a few, Kevin, Charlie, Thomas, Martha and Garth among the few who are unashamed of their grief. Thomas leans heavily against Martha, sharing their grief and Joey is tucked into the crook of her arm, face a blotchy red and tear streaked. Kevin is staring blankly into a mug full of something brown and strong.

 

            He reluctantly sets their journal on the bar, almost unwilling to share one of the few things he has left of them, but it was meant to be a guide for future hunters and Castiel will see it reach that goal. His eyes are on their initials carved into the front when he speaks into the heavy silence of the room.

 

            “We must carry on,” He speaks softly, the words underlined with a deep kind of heartache “for Sam and Dean.” There’s a straightening of spines throughout the room, although Garth is still openly weeping, as is Charlie, before a chorus of ragged “For Sam and Dean”s are called back to him.

 

            Garth’s eyes are bloodshot and tears streak his face and Charlie is making a hiccupy kind of sound while she sobs into her hands.Warily, as though uncertain of his welcome even after all this time, he places a hand on each of their shoulders and mutters lowly, so only those near him can hear.

 

“Don’t you cry no more.” Charlie flings herself forward and grips Castiel tight, crying quietly into his side and Garth collapses onto his shoulder, sobbing loudly. Castiel hesitantly pats their backs and allows himself a moment to immerse himself fully in the raw agony of loss.

 

Later, when most have gone to bed and the Men (and Women) of Letters have returned to the Batcave, Castiel wipes the bar down and pours himself a single shot of Jack Daniels, salutes the journal that holds the memories of his boys and neatly throws it back. It burns the entire way down.

 

_Carry on my wayward sons_

_There’ll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_


End file.
